


The Chase

by zelda_zee



Category: Lost, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-24
Updated: 2007-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Jack & Hurley hunt a chupacabra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chase

Jack came awake with a gasp, the evil monstrous face still bright in his vision, the rending pain in his side stabbing into his consciousness like a knife slicing deep. He tried to sit up, but the agony shot through him and he fell back against the seat, gasping and shaking. He lay still, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember anything but those glowing red eyes and the pointed fangs gnawing at his flesh as he screamed and thrashed before everything went dark.

He gingerly pressed against his side, hissing at the pain. It felt like his guts had been ripped out, chewed up and then spat back in. He hoped like hell everything he needed was still in there. The wound was bandaged, layers of gauze taped to his skin, but he could feel dampness seeping through and he knew that if he could see his fingers they’d be stained red.

Jack stared up into the darkness above him, and then slid his eyes to look out the rear windshield. Above him, blurry stars wavered in the inky black sky, flitting about like fireflies. That didn’t seem right. Stars weren’t supposed to move.

Music filled his ears. Zeppelin, playing loud. He turned his head to see two silhouettes up front, big, bushy hair sitting beside short, spiky hair. Just then Hurley turned around and looked at him, his eyes widening when he saw that Jack had awakened. He swatted the leather-clad shoulder of the guy sitting next to him.

“Dude! He’s awake.”

The driver looked into his rear view mirror. Jack followed the path of his eyes and was caught in the dark, limpid gaze looking coolly back at him from the mirror. The eyes crinkled at the corners and Jack realized he must be smiling.

“You’d better not be bleeding all over my car, Doc.”

*

Jack came to again when they were manhandling him out of the car and into a motel room. Even semi-conscious as he was he could recognize that the place hadn’t been redecorated since he was in high school.

His mind felt sluggish and foggy and for a moment he forgot the name of the guy who had his arm around him and was practically carrying him into the room. Then it came back to him – Dean. He propelled Jack toward the nearest bed and tried to let him down easy, but even so he cried out as the movement jarred his injury.

“Fuck,” he gasped. Dean pulled up a chair beside him and unzipped a duffel, pulling out a medical kit and snapping it open. Jack shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send hot needles into his body, but it was no use. “What the hell happened back there?”

“Chupacabra got you good, Jacko,” Dean said, as he sliced Jack’s shirt down the middle with a knife as long as Jack’s forearm and pushed it out of the way. “I told you to be careful. Don’t know what you even called me in for if you’re gonna charge off like that. You were supposed to wait for me, dammit. If it’d been anything with more bite than a goat-sucker you’d be dead right now.” Dean sounded like he was maybe just a little annoyed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass, Doc?”

"I thought I could take it. I thought -"

Jack’s retort was lost in a howl of pain as Dean tilted a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the hole in his side. He lay there sweating and shaking and biting his lip until it bled as Dean jabbed and prodded at him for what felt like hours. Jack watched as the reddened pads of gauze dropped from his fingers into the waste basket.

“Do you know what the hell you’re doing?” he grit out, once it was done.

“Guess you’d better hope so,” said Dean, turning back to him with a needle and thread in his hand and a smirk on his lips. “Now _this_ part might sting a little.”

***

The call had come at a good time. Sam was off in California at the wedding of some college friend of his, and Dean was cooling his jets in Vegas, spending their meager reserve on strippers and blackjack. It wasn’t so bad, but it was nowhere near as good as the hunt. He felt kind of sorry for the losers for whom this – a few days in a make-believe paradise, where every possible indulgence and perversion was available 24/7 – was the most excitement they would ever see in their sad little lives. It put it all in perspective, he thought, as he surveyed the crowded casino. Sometimes his life sucked, no doubt about it, but he wouldn’t trade places with anyone in here, because nobody in here did anything that mattered half as much as what he and Sam did. A man could take some comfort in that.

His cell phone rang as he stood there. He glanced at the number. A L.A. area code, 213. He flipped open the phone.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Hello? This is Jack Shephard. Dr. Jack Shephard, St. Sebastian’s Hospital. In L.A. I’m calling because… Well, it’s… I got your number from Hurley – I mean Hugo – Reyes. I guess you helped him out with a…” there was a slight pause, “…curse last year? The – the numbers, do you remember that?”

Dean smiled at the memory. Damn, that had been one hell of a curse. One of the worst he’d ever encountered. It had taken him and Sam three weeks to figure out how to break it.

“Hurley? Of course I remember. He’s a great guy. You a friend of his?”

“Yeah, I am. We’ve known each other – oh, for a while now.”

“Wait, you’re one of those guys from the island, right? The doctor -- yeah, I remember that.”

He groped for a memory, faint and grainy, hiding in the recesses of his mind. He recalled watching a series of reports about the rescue on TV in a cheap motel that he and Sam had called home for the space of a week while they dealt with a particularly intransigent spirit that had taken up residence in an old silver mine near Butte.

He remembered returning to the motel room on a cold, snowy night after a day of poking around abandoned mines up in the hills – while Sam sat sipping girly drinks at the local Starbucks and playing on his computer. And all right, maybe he did track down the identity of the murdered silver miner that way, but Dean was pretty damn sure that between the sugary coffee drinks and the flirty baristas and the fact that it was colder than a witch’s tit outside (and he knew through personal experience that witch’s tits were fucking _cold_ ), that Sam had taken twice as long as he should have to break that case. So he’d been annoyed when Sam shushed him as he started to bitch about why they couldn’t be hunting spirits in Florida at that time of year.

Sam had been watching the survivors of Flight 815 disembark from a plane of all things, a bunch of wild and wooly Robinson Crusoes with surprisingly solemn expressions on their faces, as if they weren’t sure whether being rescued was a good thing or not. Sam had commented that it seemed kind of cruel to make them get on another plane in order to bring them back.

The story had caught Dean’s attention because he’d thought that island sounded like his kind of place. Sounded like there was lots of bad stuff out there just ripe for hunting. Too bad the authorities had declared its location strictly top secret. It just reinforced his suspicion that the primary function of government was to take as much fun out of life as possible.

“Yeah, I was with Hurley on the island,” the doc confirmed.

“So, is this something about the numbers again? Because my brother Sam and me broke that curse but good. It shouldn’t be flaring up again.”

“No, this is something else. It’s just… well, it’s something weird. If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“Weird and crazy’s what I do. Try me.”

Dean had wandered out of the casino and was standing on the sidewalk beneath the brightly lit awning. The night was warm and the air held a desert stillness that felt exotic and unfamiliar. Girls walked by in skirts that were barely there and heels that made their smooth, tan legs go on forever, and boys walked by in tank tops cut to reveal more than they covered and tight jeans that clung to their hips like a lover’s hands. Dean sighed. He was horny. He wondered what this doctor of Hurley’s looked like. He seemed to recall a big, muscular guy on the TV report, with serious eyes and dark hair. He focused, letting the doctor’s voice wash over him.

“Well. Okay. So, I’m a spinal surgeon, but once a week I pull a shift in the ER at L.A. County and, well, lately there’s this – _thing_ that’s been happening. There’s a number of people – five, to be exact – who’ve been brought in with identical wounds. And the same story about how they got it. Some kind of – of _creature_ they say, with glowing red eyes and pointed teeth and spines down its back like a porcupine… I know it sounds insane, and it’s probably just a dog or coyote or something. Except the bite marks aren’t canine. I don’t know what they are, actually. Anyway, I can’t get anyone here to do a damn thing about it. I mean, the police are looking, of course, but they’re not looking as hard as they could, if you know what I mean. The people who’ve been attacked are all poor and Mexican, illegal probably, so nobody really seems to care all that much about it. And then, last week, it was a little girl who was attacked – and it killed her. I only heard about it yesterday, and I can’t just wait around until this _thing_ gets ahold of other little kid, and I remembered Hurley had mentioned you last year, so…”

“Okay, Doc,” said Dean, turning his back on the casino, already heading down the sidewalk toward his hotel. He'd made a snap decision to check it out, based simply on the memory of dark eyes and something in the guy's voice. And he was bored to death here in Vegas, there was that too. “Sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a chupacabra.”

Jack tried to interrupt, but before he could get a word in, Dean continued.

“That’s right. Chu-pa-ca-bra. Google it. They’re ugly sons of bitches, and mean as hell, but they make up for it by being a cinch to kill. I can be there by morning.”

*

Dean headed west on Highway 15, leaving Vegas in the dust, racing through a succession of podunk, nowhere, desert towns. It’s not that he was in a hurry. He had all night to make a five hour drive, but he figured what the hell? If he could do it in four, why wouldn’t he?

About an hour into the drive he called Sam. It was after midnight, but he figured he’d be up, partying with his college buddies. Dean felt a momentary twinge of jealousy at the thought that Sam had a whole side of his life that he wasn’t a part of, but then he fought it down with a sheer act of will. They shared more than most people could ever dream of. He could let Sam have something that was just his for once.

When Sam answered, Dean could hardly hear him over the music and sounds of partying in the background.

“Hold on,” Sam yelled. “Let me get somewhere quieter.” Dean waited for what seemed like an inordinately long time, listening to some cheesy, lameass song thumping away on the sound system in what was probably some cheesy, lameass bar. Something about bringing sexy back, but as far as Dean was concerned that particular song wasn’t doing a thing to help matters. Anyway, he mused, it wasn’t like sexy had gone anywhere. Nope, sexy was sitting right here, thank you very much.

“Dean?” The music had faded to a muted bass beat.

“What the hell’re you up to? Sounds like you’re having yourself some fun.”

“Bachelor party. We’re at a strip club. The guys’re going a bit nuts.”

“Yeah? And what about you, Sammy boy?”

“You know this kind of thing’s not my style. I’m just along for the ride.” Dean frowned. It really wouldn't kill the guy to lighten up every now and then.

“Jesus, give it a rest, Sam. You’re allowed to have some fun once in a while, you know.” He heard a long-suffering sigh and could just picture the exasperated expression that went along with it. “So. It turns out I might be having myself a little fun too. I’m heading to L.A. Gonna hunt down a chupacabra.”

“Dean! No way. Not on your own. Wait for me.”

“Sammy…”

“No, don’t ‘Sammy’ me. We work _together_. Just wait a few days, and I’ll come with you. And anyway, since when are there chupacabras in L.A? I don’t remember reading about any sightings there.”

“The little buggers are on the move, you know that. Have been since the mid-90’s. It was only a matter of time.”

“But it could be something else, Dean. Something bigger, more dangerous…”

Dean sighed.

“Sam, it killed a little girl. I can’t wait. I’m doing this one alone. I’ll do the research, be sure of what I’m dealing with, but ten to one it’s just a _chupacabra_ and I could kill one of those fuckers in my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back. Don’t worry about it. Have your fun, I’ll go waste this thing, and I’ll pick you up on the flipside.”

Sam grumbled a bit, but in the end he caved. Dean knew he would. As long as you took them by surprise, chupacabras really weren’t much trouble. They were vicious and tenacious, but operated primarily on instinct, which made them fairly predictable. They were hard to track because of their ability to blend with their surroundings, disappearing seamlessly into whatever environment they found themselves in, but of all the creatures he and Sam hunted, chupacabras were really among the least complicated. Plus, they were small, and they usually only preyed on goats and dogs and chickens, and an occasional horse or cow. Once they got a taste of human blood though, they never went back to farm animals, so Dean knew that this particular chupacabra was bound to cause a lot more trouble if it wasn’t stopped.

“Okay, okay,” Sam relented. “Just be careful. I won’t be there to watch your back, so no unnecessary risks. Promise me.”

Dean smiled at the tone of voice. He always got a kick out of it when Sam got all bossy and earnest on him.

“Sure thing, Sammy. I’ll take it easy. Oh, and Sam – buy yourself a lap dance, dude. You sound like you could use it.” He flipped the phone closed and let his foot rest a bit heavier on the accelerator.

*

Dean loitered at the nurse’s station while he waited for the doctor to finish up in surgery. To pass the time he flirted with the blond-haired, doe-eyed cutie staffing the desk. It was more out of habit than anything. He wasn’t really in the mood for soft curves and softer caresses. What he was _really_ in the mood for was –

“Dean? Are you Dean Winchester?”

He turned, taking in the height, the dark eyes, the little bit of chest hair peeking out from the v-collar of his scrubs, the arms… holy shit. He felt his belly heat as he caught a glimpse of bright color inked on the inside of the doc’s forearm. Yeah. There we go. _Exactly_ what he was in the mood for. He smiled, trying to make it more friendly than predatory. Wouldn’t do to scare the guy off before they even got started.

He followed Jack down the long hospital corridors to his office. The guy didn’t seem very talkative, but that was all right with Dean. He could appreciate someone who didn’t need to fill a moment’s silence with inane chatter. Plus, it gave him a chance to appreciate the doc’s finer assets. He hung back a couple steps and let his eyes take in the view from the rear.

 _Dr. Jack Shephard_ , he thought, as he watched the play of muscles beneath the blue cotton of the scrubs, the way the fabric pulled tight over a nice, rounded curve as the guy stepped forward. _You have one very sweet ass_.

The doc was a big guy, bigger than Dean was, but he figured he could take him in a fight. Then Dean remembered the stories about the shit that had gone down on that island, and he reconsidered. The guy was probably tougher than he looked. Maybe a lot tougher. He thought it might be kind of fun to find out just how tough.

Jack held the door to his office open, then followed Dean in. The room was messy, piles of books and journals everywhere, papers stacked haphazardly on the desk. There was a couch along one wall, with a blanket shoved down into one corner and a couple pillows beside it on the floor. It looked like Jack spent a lot of time here.

“I’ve got photos of the wounds of each of the first four victims and of the little girl as well,” Jack said, pulling a large manila envelope out of the top drawer of his desk and handing it to Dean. “As you can see, the first victims are adults. They suffered deep punctures to the torso, through the stomach and into the liver. There was a moderate amount of exsanguination, but nothing life-threatening. There was some kind of anti-coagulant in their blood after the attacks – and that seemed so… just weird to me, plus the stories the victims all told of the thing that attacked them… It could be some kind of mass hysteria…” He trailed off uncertainly before re-focusing. “Now _this_ is an entirely different matter.” He pushed another envelope across the desk toward Dean. “The little girl. Completely exsanguinated, but that’s not all. Her internal organs were removed as well. And her – and her eyes. Gone.” Jack’s voice shook a bit. Dean glanced up at him. “What would do something like that? You said on the phone – chupacabra?"

“Yeah,” Dean stated, studying the photos. “Also known as the goat-sucker. Originated in Puerto Rico in the ‘70’s, spread through Central and South America, up into Mexico and now we’ve got’em right here in the States. Yep, that looks like what we’re dealing with, Doc. Congratulations. You’ve reported the first chupacabra to hit Los Angeles.”

Jack turned and stared out the window, abstractedly rubbing his hand over his hair, back, forward and then back again. Dean wondered if he was even aware of that nervous gesture, a telling sign of distress. He bet he wasn’t. The doc didn’t strike him as someone who would give away anything more than he absolutely had to about his state of mind.

“I looked them up on the internet. Sounds like a myth to me, an urban legend.”

“You don’t have to believe they’re real, Doc. Makes no difference to me. I can still go out there and do my job.”

Jack turned around, leveling him with a hard stare. “Hurley says to trust you, so I’m going to.” He didn’t need to add _against my better judgement_. Dean could see it in his eyes. He nodded.

“Can you get me in the morgue?” he asked.

“Not a problem.” Jack sighed, settling his shoulders. “What do we do next?”

“ _We_ don’t do anything. _I_ go out there and kill the damn thing and _you_ stay here and do whatever it is you do, Dr. Shephard. That’s the deal.”

Jack scoffed.

“Now wait just a minute. I didn’t call you in just to get pushed aside, Dean. Sure, you’re the expert here, but I’m going with you. I want to know what’s going on, whether it’s this creature you seem to think it is, or something else. You’ll need someone to watch your back anyway, won’t you?”

Dean looked at him curiously, surprised to hear him echoing Sam’s words.

“It’s just a goat-sucker, Doc. No big deal. I can handle it, believe me.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m sure you can. I’m just saying, it never hurts to have someone to back you up. I’ve got my own weapons, if that’s an issue.”

Dean shook his head. “That's not the issue. Chupacabras are supernatural, originating from a demonic curse. You’ve gotta cut off their heads to kill ‘em, bullets only slow 'em down for a few seconds. So I hope you’ve got an extra broadsword hanging around, because your guns don't count for shit.”

“Still,” Jack insisted, his lips pressing together in a thin, stubborn line. “I’m going.”

“You know,” said Dean, watching Jack through narrowed eyes. “Usually people are a little more fazed at the idea of freaky shit like this. I’ve gotta hand it to you, you’re taking the idea of a supernatural vampiric _monster_ pretty well.”

Jack just watched him steadily.

“You don’t know the things I’ve seen.” Dean felt a little chill at the grim tone of Jack’s voice. “I’m going with you, Dean.”

Jack put his hands on the desk and leaned forward, giving Dean a very determined stare. Dean’s eyes dropped to his mouth, then down to the enticing bit of hair-covered chest that he could see where the V of Jack’s shirt gaped away from his body, then over to the intricate patterns traveling up the inside of that very well-muscled arm. Maybe he could come along, Dean thought. He could stay out of trouble, wait in the car while Dean hunted the thing down. A tiny voice at the back of his mind whispered that this wasn’t a good idea, but he ignored it, thinking about after the kill, the doctor laying spread out on the black vinyl of the Impala’s back seat, all hot and bothered by having faced down certain death and ready to celebrate the triumph of life in the most primal way imaginable.

He licked his lips, his eyes meeting Jack’s. He let a bit of the predator show, just to see what the doc would do.

“Okay, Jack,” he said, pitching his voice low and quiet. “You’re right, it’s always good to have somebody at your back when things get hot. You come along with me, and we’ll just see what you can do.” He smiled, watching the flush rise in Jack’s cheeks. Yeah, he feels it, Dean thought with satisfaction. He knows just what I’m thinking.

Jack swallowed and blinked, breaking the connection. He heaved a deep sigh and straightened up.

“When do we go? My shift’s over at three.”

Dean checked his watch. “Then let’s leave at five.”

Jack nodded and scribbled his address on the sheet of notepaper and handed it to Dean.

“I’ll be ready. And Dean?” he said, as Dean turned to go. “Don’t call me Doc.”

*

Dean pulled into Jack’s driveway a few minutes after five. It was a big house, modern, all clean lines and white stone. The guy must be loaded, Dean thought. Must have more money than he knows what to do with. He figured all those island people must’ve made a mint with the lawsuits, but there was something about Jack. He looked like money. You could tell he’d never gone without.

Dean gazed up at the house through the windshield. He wondered what it would be like, to live someplace like that, to own more than the duffel of clothes and the arsenal in the trunk of his car. To have grown up like Jack no doubt had, taking vacations with your family instead of hunting trips, celebrating Christmas and birthdays, having parents who took care of you instead of a dead mother and an absent father and a little brother who had needed you to look after him for as long as you could remember. He wondered what it would have been like to feel that safe and secure, believing that if your dad checked under your bed and told you nothing was there, if he left the light on in the hall, then the bogey-man couldn’t get you and the monsters were all in your head.

He blinked, snapping out of it. That life wasn’t for him. Never had been, never would be.

Jack answered the door in a green and brown t-shirt and jeans and a pair of rugged, worn in boots. He smiled at Dean a bit nervously as he shouldered past him and into the house.

“You ready?” Dean asked.

“Sure,” said Jack. “Just let me grab my stuff. I’ll just be a minute.” He headed up the stairs to the second floor leaving Dean alone in the entry.

“Dude!”

Dean turned in surprise.

“Hurley? Hey, man, it’s good to see you!” He held out his hand, but was instantly enveloped in a crushing hug. Hurley squeezed him tightly and since there was really nothing Dean could do about it without pushing him away, he just submitted to it, patting his back awkwardly a few times until Hurley released him, standing back and looking at him with a happy smile.

“Been too long, dude. How’s Sam? He still keeping you outta trouble?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s good. He’ll be bummed he missed you.”

“You guys still hunting together?”

“Yeah,” replied Dean. “We are. He’s just at a wedding this week. In the Bay Area.”

“Cool. Cuz last year there was some question. But I’m glad.”

Dean gave him a little smile. Spending three weeks on the numbers gig had been a bit different from their normal jobs, if any of their jobs could be said to be “normal”. For one thing, Hurley was clued in to the whole supernatural aspect of the curse from the start _and_ he’d insisted they stay at his place when they weren’t chasing leads, and since his place was so much nicer than the places they usually stayed – was, in fact, nicer than anyplace they had _ever_ stayed – they had broken their usual practice of keeping a bit of distance and privacy.

And then there had been the week after, when they were at loose ends, not having been able to pick up a new case yet, and Hurley had convinced them to just stay on until they got something. So they had and it had almost been a vacation. Doing research while lounging by the pool drinking margaritas had felt like one anyway.

They ended up spending a lot of time with Hurley, and he pretty much got the whole story about what they did and why and Dean seemed to have a vague memory of getting very drunk one night and telling Hurley about how Sam wasn’t planning to stick with hunting, and how he didn’t know how he was going to deal with it when he left. Man, he must have been shitfaced to be running off at the mouth like that.

“So, what’re you doing here?” Dean asked.

“Didn’t Jack say? I’m coming with you.” Dean looked at him in surprise and Hurley’s face fell. “Oh, sorry dude. Yeah, Jack asked me to. I figured he’d cleared it with you first, but I should’ve known.” Hurley glanced toward the stairs. “Um. So, Jack. He’s a good guy, but he’s used to being in charge. He doesn’t mean to be pushy, but…”

Great, Dean thought. Just what he needed. Some rich, pretty-boy doctor who didn’t know the first thing about hunting trying to run the show.

On the other hand, taking the guy down a peg or two might be kind of fun.

“No offense, Hurley, but no way. I’m gonna have to keep an eye on the doc as it is. I can’t be keeping an eye on you too. Maybe chupacabras aren’t the nastiest things out there, but they can still do some major damage if you’re not careful and I…”

“We need him to come, Dean,” Jack cut in, as he descended the stairs. “You said we need to talk to the victims. Do you speak Spanish?”

Dean just looked at him for a moment. Fuck. “No.”

“Well, neither do I. Not well enough to be able to hold that kind of conversation anyway. So he’s coming.”

Jack shouldered his backpack and strode by them to the front door, holding it open and waiting for them to exit. He caught Dean’s eye as he passed him, following Hurley outside.

“You don’t need to keep an eye on me, Dean. I can look after myself.”

Dean couldn’t quite help the smirk that plastered itself over his face. He leaned in and spoke low, so that only Jack could hear him.

“Keeping an eye on you really won’t be a hardship. _Doc_.”

***

Hurley had known from the start that there was potential for trouble where Jack and Dean were concerned. They were two of the most alpha of all the alpha males he’d ever known, and he figured there’d be a lot of jockeying for position before they figured out who was in charge. It would have been easier if Sam was there. Sam could smooth over Dean’s rough edges and he would have related to Jack better than Dean could. Dean was great, he loved the guy, but Dean had a competitive streak a mile long, and so did Jack. Hurley was bummed that Sam was at that wedding, because that left him stuck in the middle which was a place he particularly hated to be, especially since the island where he’d been stuck in the middle the whole damn time.

But then they’d gone out into the driveway, and there was the Impala, long and sleek and shiny and so fucking beautiful it nearly brought a tear to his eye. Damn, but he loved that car.

“Que hermosa,” Hurley murmured, running a hand over her hood. “She looks great,” he said, smiling at Dean.

“Yeah. She’s been through the wringer since you saw her last, but you’d never know it,” Dean said fondly. “She cleans up good.”

“That… _that’s_ your car?” Jack asked, staring fixedly at it. He approached slowly, reaching out to run a tentative finger over gleaming black metal. “This is your car?” He said again, looking at Dean.

“Yeah. This’s my baby. You like her, Doc?”

“This is an awesome car,” Jack said, shaking his head in wonder. “’67? You don’t see many of them around. Man, she’s in perfect shape. You work on her yourself?”

“Wouldn’t trust her to anyone else.”

Jack nodded, obviously in complete agreement. Hurley stood a little apart, watching them as Jack questioned Dean about the Impala. At first Dean’s answers were short and abrupt, but soon he became more communicative, discoursing on engines and horsepower and throwing out terms like ‘turbo hydra-matic’ and ‘positraction differential’ that Hurley thought sounded a lot like Star Trek techno-babble. Jack seemed to be following him though, and Hurley wondered if maybe Jack possessed a secret interest in muscle cars to go along with all the other secrets the guy seemed to have.

He let them talk, even though he was feeling a bit antsy to get on with it, because it seemed like Jack and Dean were actually connecting about something. Dean had the hood open and they were standing close together and he was pointing out stuff that he’d altered to make the engine more stable and make the car accelerate faster. Jack appeared to be fascinated by the engine and Dean…

 _Whoa_ , thought Hurley. Dean appeared to be fascinated by _Jack_.

Yes, he was definitely reading that right. Dean kept shifting a little bit closer to Jack, so their bodies brushed against each other, touching Jack’s arm to direct his attention to something else, dropping his voice so Jack had to lean in to hear what he was saying. Dean’s eyes lingered on Jack’s face more than they did on what was under the hood and when Jack leaned forward to check something out close up Dean leaned back and checked out Jack’s ass.

Hurley looked from one to the other speculatively. He didn’t know if this particular development was a good thing or a bad thing. If Dean was trying to curry Jack’s favor that should help prevent any major personality clashes. And Jack had been nursing that broken heart for far too long. Maybe Dean was just what he needed. Another bad boy though, Hurley thought in consternation. That might not be such a good idea.

He finally spoke up. “You guys? Don’t we have something we’re supposed to be doing? You know, glowing red eyeballs, fangs, claws, blood-sucking vampire from outer space..?”

Dean and Jack looked up from the engine.

“They’re not from outer space, Hurley,” stated Dean.

“Yeah, that’s just a myth. They originate from a curse,” Jack added, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

*

They spent the evening in East L.A. visiting the four victims who had survived the attacks. In the end, Hurley had to admit that dragging him along with them was a very good idea, because in every case it took a lot of work to convince the victims that they were not from la Migra, and without him, Jack and Dean would have looked the part too perfectly to be believed.

Around midnight they were parked at Burrito King, having finished all the interviews, wolfing down carne asada tacos and chile verde burritos and taquitos de pollo con guacamole.

“This is the best Mexican food I’ve ever had,” said Dean, stopping to inhale through his mouth. “But the salsa’s fucking _hot_. My mouth’s on fire.” He took another bite.

“So good,” Hurley agreed. “When we were on the island, I dreamed about Burrito King. Burrito King and my mother’s tamales.”

“Ice cream,” said Jack. “Man, I used to fantasize about ice cream.”

“I don’t know how you guys did it,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I don’t exactly lead what you might call a _normal_ life, but what you guys lived through… It must’ve been crazy.”

“Crazy doesn’t really begin to describe it,” said Jack.

“I don’t know, dude,” Hurley sighed, leaning back against the seat, turning to look at Dean. “I think you’ve pretty much got the market cornered on crazy lifestyles, if you ask me.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Well. Beats the rat race.” He opened up his notebook, flipping through the pages to find what he’d written down. “So, let’s go over what we’ve got here. All four victims describe the same creature. We’ve got red eyes and fangs, black hair, spines down the back, hands with three-finged claws, walks upright, moves fast, blends into its surroundings, smells like sulphur. Definitely a chupacbra. They said between 5’5” and 6’, and I’ll tell you if that’s true it’s the biggest damn chupacabra I’ve ever heard of. More likely it’s about 4’5”.

“So you’re sure that’s what it is,” said Jack doubtfully. “It couldn’t be anything else?”

“You heard what those people said, Doc.” Dean turned around in the seat. “That sound like a dog to you? Or a coyote?”

Jack looked out the window for a minute before shaking his head. “No. It’s just hard to believe it’s some _creature_ that’s never even been proven to exist.”

“Jack’s not good at taking things on faith,” Hurley explained. “What? It’s true, dude.” He said as Jack shot him a look. He turned to Dean. “You gonna eat that?” he asked, pointing to the single remaining taquito. Dean shook his head, so he snagged it. “So, what’s next?”

“Well, it looks like the thing’s moving north, which is good in a way, it takes it out of the more heavily populated areas. Tomorrow night I’ll see if I can get a bead on it. If I’m lucky I might even be able to take it down, which’d give me enough time to take the coast road up to Palo Alto. That’d be sweet.”

“You shouldn’t go out alone,” Jack spoke up. "And I thought we agreed -"

“Thing is, doc, chupacabras are easy to kill, but they’re not easy to catch,” Dean explained. “The little buggers are _fast_ once they know something’s after them. Plus there’s that whole chameleon thing, makes them damn near impossible to see. I’ll only be able to kill it if it doesn’t know I’m coming. So it’s really gonna be better if I just do it myself.” He looked from Jack to Hurley. “No offense to you guys.”

“None taken,” Hurley assured him, feeling relief wash over him. “You have yourself a good old time, my friend. Knock yourself out.”

Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of the seat, looking at Dean, staring straight at him. Hurley watched Dean’s face, watched his gaze flit from Jack’s eyes to his mouth and back again, and he could swear he saw his resolve start to weaken before Jack said a single word. “I think you should take me with you, Dean, like you said you would,” Jack murmured, his voice just a bit softer than Hurley was accustomed to hearing. “Things can happen, you know. And you can't always predict which way it’s gonna go. Something you never anticipated might sneak up on you and knock you for a loop. It’d be a good idea to have me there if that happens. Just to, you know… watch your back.”

Jesus, thought Hurley. Jack fucking Shephard is _flirting_ with Dean fucking Winchester. Beam me up, Scotty.

“Would it matter if I said ‘no’?” Dean asked.

“It really wouldn’t,” he admitted, chuckling.

“Yeah,” Dean said on a slow exhale, his eyes boring into Jack’s. Hurley was starting to get uncomfortable. He could feel the air sparking between them from where he was sitting. “Okay, Jack. But you’re gonna do what I tell you, no questions asked, and you’re gonna stay out of the way when I tell to you to, understood?”

“Sure, Dean,” said Jack, settling into the backseat. “Whatever you say.”

*

The next night Hurley was sprawled across his leather couch, drinking a beer and watching a rerun of The Chapelle Show when his phone rang.

“Hey Jack. How’d it go?” He could hear music in the background above the roar of an engine. They must be on the road. “Dude, _what_ are you listening to? Is that REO Speedwagon?”

“What? Dean chose it, I – I don’t know what it is.” Jack sounded shaken. “I guess you could say things could’ve gone better, Hurley.”

He heard a snort of laughter in the background, then Dean’s voice, “You can fucking say that again.”

Hurley sat up a little straighter, frowning in worry. “What d’you mean ‘could’ve gone better’? Did somebody get hurt?”

“No, we’re fine. It’s just…” There was definitely a quaver in Jack’s voice. “I _saw_ it, Hurley.” Jack had dropped his voice and Hurley had the impression he was trying not to be overheard. “It’s _real_. And it was just like those people said, claws, fangs… a freaking _monster_ right here in L.A. I’d almost… If it was the island, maybe, but _here_? It’s unbelievable!”

Jack may have been flummoxed at the idea of monsters being real, but the concept was nothing new to Hurley. He’d grown up with the chupacabra legend, as well as La Llorona and a whole slew of others. And then there were all the stories he’d heard from Sam and Dean when they were breaking the numbers curse, once he’d managed to convince them that he wasn’t going to spook at the truth and they’d gotten enough tequila in them to loosen up their habitually closed mouths.

“We’ve seen a lot of crazy stuff, Jack. This’s no weirder than anything that happened on the island. There’s freaky shit everywhere, not just there. Ask Dean about it. He can tell you some stories.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Jack said. “He was so certain, but I just didn’t believe it. Not ‘til I saw it with my own eyes.” There was a brief silence. “But that’s not why it didn’t go well. It saw us… or maybe smelled us, I don’t know. At any rate, it knew we were there.”

“What happened? Did it try to go after you?”

“Not – no. It made a lot of noise – Jesus, I hope I never hear anything like it again. This reverberating sort of screech. Thought my eardrums were gonna explode. And it sort of reared up and I thought it was about to attack. But then Dean took a shot at it and it just took off, did this crazy leap, like nothing I’ve ever seen. It leaped over a _house_ , Hurley. And that was it, it was _gone_.”

“But… but, you’re gonna catch it, right?” Hurley said in alarm. “You can’t just let it go. It’ll attack somebody else, Jack.”

“Well, see that’s the thing. Dean wants to track it, and so do I. But we need you to come along, because Dean says it’ll be easier with someone who speaks Spanish. He thinks it might take a day or two to pick up its trail again, and he says we’re gonna have to talk to people, find out if anyone’s seen it, that kind of thing, so we’re gonna need you along to translate.”

“Oh, dude, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” Hurley protested. “Jack… c’mon dude. I’m not a hunter.”

“Neither am I, Hurley." Jack used his most earnest, imploring tone. "But if we’re going to do this, we really need your help.”

 _Shit_. Jack, the fucker, knew just how to get to him.

“Fuck, okay. Fuck. But shouldn’t you guys be on its tail right now? Isn’t it getting away while we're sitting here talking?” he asked hopefully, thinking maybe, somehow, they’d just turn around and start following it on their own and leave him in peace.

“We tried. Lost it. Gonna have to try to pick up its track in the morning. We’ll be by at…” There was a muffled conversation. “Six o’clock.”

“Six o’clock?!” Hurley groaned. “In the _morning_? Dude, just do me a favor and shoot me now.”

Which is how he found himself riding shotgun beside Dean, holding his coffee for him as he navigated L.A.’s morning rush hour, with Jack in the back sipping his triple nonfat no whip white chocolate mocha, as the early morning sun burned through the brown L.A. haze, heading north toward the hills.

***

Dean hadn’t been kidding when he said that the chupacabra would be hard to catch. They tracked it all day, up into the San Gabriel Mountains, driving for short stints, stopping to talk to farm workers, or when there weren’t any farms, stopping at gas stations and bars and convenience stores. Hurley would go into his roundabout spiel, trying to glean any information he could out of the Latinos while Dean and Jack chatted up the English-speakers they encountered.

It was tiring, talking to strangers, Hurley thought, and it was damned hot riding in that car. The Impala was an oven baking in the southern California sunshine, with no a/c and those black vinyl seats. They rolled down all the windows, but the air was too heated to have much effect. Hurley felt like he was melting.

“Dude, why the hell haven’t you installed a/c in this car?” he moaned. He turned to Jack, who was sitting in the back, his skin flushed pink from the heat, sweat stains under his arms and at the neck of his t-shirt. “We should’ve taken your Beamer.” Dean snorted derisively. Hurley turned back to him. “What? At least we’d be cool.”

“Man, you are one cranky dude,” Dean sighed. He caught Jack’s eye in the rear-view mirror. “You ever seen him like this?”

“Oh yeah,” said Jack. “And worse.”

“I just don’t like being uncomfortable,” Hurley muttered.

“You must’ve had a bitch of a time on that island of yours,” Dean observed.

“I dealt with it,” Hurley said, feeling a bit defensive. He’d done just fine on the island. As fine as any of them, anyway. “My tolerance is down. I’m used to the comforts of civilization again.”

Hurley closed his eyes, tried to ignore how horribly sweaty and sticky he felt. Eventually he dozed off, unable to combat the soporific effect of the heat. He slept uneasily, dreaming of unseen monsters and the quiet darkness of the jungle and an endless, sparkling sea.

He woke with a start, his stomach lurching as he realized he’d been falling out of the sky, reliving that long tumble through the heavens that so often ended his dreams.

The car was parked against the curb in a dusty, one-block town. The day had cooled into evening, the first stars just beginning to appear in the lavender-tinged sky. Jack and Dean were nowhere in sight, but he figured he knew where they were, since the only business that appeared to be open was a run-down bar called El Vaquero, whose neon sign cast a reddish glow onto the deserted street.

The bar was dark and smoky. California’s no-smoking law apparently held little sway out here in the sticks. He peered through the haze looking for Jack and Dean. There was a motley assortment of hard-bitten types at the bar and a couple of leather-clad bikers playing pool and a waitress who looked to be in her fifties but who was probably closer to thirty-five giving him a not-too-friendly once-over, and back in the darkest corner, in a booth that was half-obscured by the bar, were Jack and Dean, both of them leaning forward across the table, having what looked like an intense discussion. Hurley frowned as he counted five beer bottles and three shot glasses on the table between them. Either he’d been asleep for longer than he’d realized or the guys were working up a serious drunk in record time.

Neither of them had looked over when he’d entered, but a second later Dean's eyes swept the room, second nature, Hurley thought. He doubted Dean was even aware he was doing it. His gaze lingered on Hurley for half a second and then he laughed at something Jack said and leaned back, taking a swig of beer and even from across the bar Hurley could see the gleam in his eye. _Oh, great_ , he thought, noting they way Jack's attention was focused hungrily on Dean's face, on his mouth, to be exact. _Whoo-boy_ , Hurley whispered, as Dean’s tongue flicked out to lick at the corner of his lip, clearly a deliberate move. He suddenly felt very much like a third wheel.

Not that he had any problem with the two of them being all hot for each other. To each his own, que sera, sera, live and let live. He was just happy to see Jack finally showing an interest in someone after all this time. Who cares if the someone was a mildly anti-social semi-criminal who listened to mullet rock and devoted his life to putting the undead to rest, often violently, often with lots of blood and gore and… ectoplasm. Even if guys weren’t his thing, Hurley could see that Dean was damn fine to look at, with those big, pretty, soulful eyes and big, pretty, pouty lips. Hurley hadn’t seen Jack’s face break into that easy grin for a very long time. Up until now Jack hadn’t given any hint that he was ready to move on, but if Dean could help him get over that old broken heart, then more power to him.

He made his way over to their table, feeling a bit hesitant to interrupt, but when Jack looked up at him the smile that he got was so welcoming that his nervousness vanished. Jack scooted over, making room for him to slide in beside him.

“Hola, amigo” he said, clapping Hurley on the back.

“Sleeping Beauty has awakened,” Dean observed. He signaled the waitress for another round.

“You guys should’ve woke me up,” Hurley said.

“Aww, but you looked so peaceful, we didn’t have the heart to,” said Dean. “We figured you’d find us.”

“So,” said Hurley in some confusion, “what’s going on?”

“Drinking,” said Dean, gesturing to the bottles and glasses littering the tabletop.

“Dean was tryin’ to convince me there were spirits on the island,” Jack slurred. He was obviously quite drunk.

Hurley raised his eyebrows, looking at Dean, who nodded solemnly.

“We-e-ell, I suppose it’s possible.” Hurley thought about it. “Whispers in the jungle, remember that Jack? And that… smoke thing. Ben sure as hell could’ve been a demon. And if Michael had been possessed – well, that could explain a lot…”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Hurley, no way! Tha’s just bullshit. Ben was a twisted, mono-man-i-a-cal creep… and Michael was an unstable guy who had a psy-psychotic break. They’re just people – very fucked up people, but people nevertheless.”

The waitress arrived then, putting a beer and a shot down in front of Jack and Hurley.

“Dudes,” Hurley said, when she’d walked away. “What the hell are you doing? We’re supposed to be tracking a chupacabra, not getting drunk in some shitty bar.”

“I’m not drunk.” Jack giggled, then hiccupped. He tried to look at Hurley seriously, then giggled again. Dean had the good grace to look chagrined.

“You’re getting him drunk,” Hurley accused, giving Dean a glare that clearly said that he wasn’t fooled by the wide-eyed innocent look Dean was laying on him. “Now I wonder, why would you be trying to get Jack drunk, Dean?”

“Jack”s getting himself drunk, my friend,” Dean said. “I’m just keeping him company.”

“Yeah, Hurley,” Jack chimed in. “No one’s gettin’ me drunk but me.” Apparently he had forgotten his claim that he wasn’t drunk in the first place.

Hurley rolled his eyes. He could only surmise that the pheromones the two of them were giving off in each other’s presence had scrambled their brains.

“Guys? Does the word ‘chupacabra’ ring a bell?”

“Um, we actually know where it is,” Dean admitted. He stared at his beer bottle, picking at the label with a fingernail. “Heard it on the farm channel about ten miles before we hit town. Somebody called in – described this weird creature they saw – in their chicken coop, I think they said. They were speaking Spanish, but we caught the gist of it.”

“Okay, so where is it?” Hurley asked, taking a swig of his beer. “And why aren’t we on its tail?”

“Just east of Barstow, about 100 miles from here. We, aaahh, we just figured –” he glanced at Jack, who shrugged, “since we knew where we were going, even knew the name of the folks who’d seen it, thought maybe we had time to stop for a drink.”

“ _A_ drink?” Hurley said incredulously, pointing to the bottles and shot glasses cluttering the table. “Are you sure you’re in any shape to hunt?”

“This’s only my second beer.” Dean gestured toward the table. “The rest are Jack’s.”

“Oh,” said Hurley. “Great.”

Jack was leaning against the wall staring at Dean through heavy-lidded eyes, no longer making any pretense of doing anything but exactly that.

“I guess,” Dean said reluctantly, catching Jack’s eye for a moment, before looking away. “I guess we should go.”

”Yeah,” said Hurley in exasperation. “I guess maybe we should." He shook his head in disgust and got up to pay their tab, waving away Dean’s efforts to pitch in.

He waited on the sidewalk beside the car, breathing in the cool evening air and looking up at the stars that he could seldom see in L.A. Here they were sparse in the sky, so different from the island night, which had been crowded with tiny diamond pinpricks of light.

The door to the bar slammed and Jack made his way along the sidewalk in Hurley's general direction, a bit unsteadily. When he got to the car he leaned heavily against it, tilting his head back to look at the sky.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Bathroom. ‘S nice to see the stars, in’ it?”

“Yeah.”

“Miss ‘em. There’s stuff I miss. A few things. Like the stars.”

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Hurley.” Jack said. “Dean’s an okay guy… I mean… he’s an okay guy, right? Before I called him you said he could be trusted, so he must be okay. Right?”

“I said you could trust him about – you know – _supernatural_ stuff. I don’t know how far you can trust him about… _other_ stuff. You’re on your own there, dude.”

“Okay.” Jack swallowed audibly. Hurley watched as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Dean’s okay,” he said, relenting a bit. “He’s a good guy, Jack, but he’s not the type to stick around. Just try to remember that.”

Jack nodded, starting to say something else when Dean emerged from the bar. _Thank God_ , Hurley thought. He would really rather not be the recipient of Jack’s drunken confidences.

Jack crawled in the back and stretched out on the seat, yawning loudly. By the time the town disappeared in their rear view mirror, he was fast asleep. Hurley sifted through Dean’s box of cassettes, shaking his head sadly.

“Dude, _why_?”

“Why, what?”

“Why? That’s all I got. Just, _why_?”

“There’s a bunch of great music in there.” Dean said defensively.

“I’m buying you a CD player and a/c for this car,” Hurley said decisively. “And some music recorded after 1985. What gives? You weren’t even born when this stuff was popular.”

“It came with the car,” Dean grumbled.

“It was your dad’s? Well, that explains a lot – like why it’s all so ancient. So what’s up with him – your dad? You guys ever find him?”

Dean sighed. He was quiet for a moment. Hurley watched his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel and wondered what he’d said wrong.

“We found him,” Dean said shortly. “And he died.”

“He… Oh.” Hurley was silent, trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry, Dean. That really sucks.”

“Yeah, it pretty much does.” Dean sighed. He stared out into the dark, his jaw clenched, his brows drawn down into a frown. “Put in _Let It Bleed_ , would ya?”

Hurley slipped the cassette in, turning the volume down a bit so it didn’t wake up Jack. The miles rolled by, measured only in the white stripes of the highway devoured by their wheels. He thought about Dean and Sam and their dad. He didn’t know much about the guy, but he knew that Dean had kind of worshiped him and that Sam… well, that Sam hadn’t. He figured either way, his death must’ve been hard, must’ve left a lot of stuff unresolved. Death always did.

“So… Jack,” said Dean.

“No, no, no,” Hurley interrupted. “Do not even start with me, dude. I got nothin’ to say there, you two are on your own. Oh, wait, I got one thing to say –” He fixed Dean with a hard stare. “Stop thinking with your dick. If you guys want to make googly eyes at each other, that’s your business, but I want to catch that chupacabra and get home again as fast as I can, okay?”

Dean pressed his lips together, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled. They were quiet for a moment. “So what about you, H? You got some girl on the line back there in L.A.?”

“Me? Nah, not me. Well, there's this girl at the Starbucks, but I don't know if she likes me...”

They talked then, about nothing, just passing the time until they got to Barstow. It was easy, talking to Dean, which always kind of surprised Hurley, because it didn’t seem like it should be. But the fact was that they’d hit it off from the start, which Hurley found pretty flattering. He had an idea Dean didn’t have much patience for people who rubbed him the wrong way.

In Barstow they rented two rooms at the Minn-Iowa Motel. Hurley deposited Jack on a twin bed in the double, where he promptly passed out and started sawing logs. Dean took off to hunt down the chupacabra and didn’t expect to be back until morning, so Hurley nabbed the single room. He figured it was only fair, since he was footing the bill and anyway, there was no way in hell that he was sleeping in a twin bed.

*

He was in the coffee shop across the street at about eight the next morning when Jack shuffled in, unshaven and bleary-eyed.

“Ohhh, _dude_ ,” Hurley said, shaking his head sadly.

“I don't wanna hear it,” Jack snapped, his voice gritty as sandpaper. Hurley raised his eyebrows and fell silent, waiting for the coffee to take effect. After Jack had downed a cup of it, he looked up. “Sorry. Got a headache. I’ll be okay in a bit.”

Dean appeared just in time to catch the waitress and add to their order. He slid into the booth looking pale and disgruntled, with dark circles under his eyes and a frown on his face.

“Before you ask, no, I didn’t catch it.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Hurley. “I _knew_ you shouldn’t have had those beers.”

Dean gave him a sour look. “Fucker’d been and gone. Left a couple dead goats and a dog behind, thank God it didn’t attack any people. Chased it all night, right on its tail, nearly caught up to it a couple times, but it got away. This thing’s starting to get on my nerves. Never had so much trouble from a fucking goat-sucker before.”

Dean described his night of driving down dirt roads and climbing over fences and slogging across open pasture and once through a cattle pen when he thought he had the thing cornered.

“So what now?” asked Hurley.

“We follow it,” replied Dean, as the waitress arrived with their breakfasts. “It’s heading east.” She put down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Dean, plain toast in front of Jack and a fruit and yogurt plate in front of Hurley.

“What’s up with that, H?” Dean asked, pointing to Hurley's plate. “That’s not even food.”

“Hey, I used to be fat, dude. I gotta watch what I eat.”

“I hate to break it to you," Dean said around a mouthful of hash browns, "but you’re still a big guy.”

“This is nothing! I mean, I used to be _fat_. Tell him, Jack.”

Jack nodded. “It’s true. He used to be bigger. Really big.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Hunh. You weren’t watching your girlish figure the other night at Burrito King.”

“Burrito King’s the exception.” Hurley smiled. “That, and my mom’s tamales.”

*

It was mid-afternoon on the fourth day of their pursuit and they were traveling east by fits and starts. They had just passed through Kingman and they were stuck, not knowing which way to go: continue east toward Flagstaff, north to Vegas, or south in the direction of Phoenix. Their leads had gone as dry as the Arizona dirt under their feet as they stood beside the car at the side of the road. Jack had his back to them, but Hurley could overhear him having a heated phone conversation with somebody at St. Sebastian’s. He imagined that he’d be in a heap of trouble at this point, although knowing Jack, he doubted that he’d suffer much for it. It’s not like the hospital would fire their most famous surgeon, the golden boy who returned from the dead, the Hero and Savior of Craphole Island, as Sawyer had called him. Jack had hated it when he’d said that kind of thing, but the fact was that it was pretty close the truth. That was the thing about Sawyer - most of what he said was close to the truth, it was just that it was the kind of truth that people didn’t appreciate having pointed out to them.

Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a road map, his GPS receiver, his notebook and his dad’s journal spread out over his lap, mumbling to himself and chewing on a pencil. His cell rang and he flipped it open.

“Sam? Whaddya got for me?” Hurley ventured closer, wanting to hear if Sam had any news. Dean listened for a moment, a frown of concentration on his face, before it was replaced by a look of exasperation. “Yeah, I know what I said, so don’t go getting cocky on me. Fine, I take it back. But Sam, I swear this thing’s like a chupacabra on steroids, smart as fuck and wicked fast. It's gonna feel so goddamn good to chop that fucker's head off, I can't even tell you. So just cut the crap and tell me what I need to know, okay?” He listened for a while, scribbling in his notebook. “What the –? You’re shittin’ me! God _dammit_! No, fine, fine. We’re on our way. See? Told you the damn thing was fast.”

He jumped down off the hood, moving around to the driver’s seat. “Sam? You doing okay up there? Sorry for the hold up, man.” He listened for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his face. “No shit. Well, well, well. Good for you Sammy-boy.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Yeah, well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do." His smile broadened. "You can say that again. Later, dude.”

“Time to saddle up,” he called out. Jack held up a hand, asking for more time, but Dean just got in the car and started her up. Hurley slid into the passenger seat with a sigh, resigned to another long day in the car. “So, it turns out,” Dean said, turning to him, “Sam’s having himself a little fling with some hippie chick named Chynna that he met at the wedding. In her _yurt_ somewhere up in the hills in Marin county. He says we can take all the time we want to catch this thing, he’s in no hurry to leave.”

Hurley snorted. “Yeah? Well, good for him. God, I’m already tired of motel beds and diner food and hours and hours in the car with these sticky vinyl seats and no a/c. Dude, how the hell do you do it?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s not so bad,” he muttered. “You get used to it.”

Jack slid into the back seat. “Sorry,” he said. “Hospital’s being a pain in the ass.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Hurley mumbled. “Their star spine guy’s out hunting chupacabra. Jeez, you’d think they’d just be _thrilled_ with that.”

“Heading east, boys,” Dean announced. “Sam dug up some stuff on the internet. Couple people were attacked on the Navajo Rez, 60 miles southeast of the town of Red Mesa - which is in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere, I might add. That’s where we’re headed. He’s gonna keep on top of it from his end. When he’s not on top of Chynna, that is.” Dean chuckled, obviously tickled at his own wit. “He’ll update us as he gets more.”

Dean stomped on the accelerator and the car fishtailed back onto the highway, a spray of dust and gravel flying up behind them. Hurley stared out at the road ahead, a long, black ribbon stretching straight into the shimmering distance. As adventures went, this one wasn’t bad. The company was good and it was for a worthy cause. If the transportation wasn’t all that comfortable, it couldn’t be denied that they were traveling with a certain style. If he was at home, he wouldn’t be doing anything nearly as interesting.

But the truth was, he’d had his fill of adventure. He could honestly say that if he lived until the end of his days without having another adventure he'd be perfectly content with that state of affairs. He really hoped Dean could catch that damn thing tonight, so that tomorrow he could be back in his California King with the 400-count Egyptian cotton sheets and the fluffy down pillows and the priceless view of the ocean. He just wasn’t cut out for the life of a hunter.

***

Night on the Rez was black as a demon’s eyes, unrelieved darkness blanketing the vast stretch of open space. The new moon was a paper-thin sliver of silver in the sky, the stars tiny pinpricks in the veil of night, too far away for their cold light to provide any illumination. The desert was still, just the occasional sound of something slithering through the brush to break the silence. Dean shivered, cold even in his leather jacket. After sunset the temperature plummeted around here.

The darkness would help them and hurt them, since the chupacabra wouldn’t spot them as easily, but then they wouldn’t be able to see it either.

They’d passed a small adobe house a few miles back down the rutted dirt road, the blue, flickering light of a television visible through the front window. Dean only hoped that its inhabitants would never even know they had been there.

Hurley was with them this time, stationed at the back entrance to the barn, taser and machete in hand. Dean hadn’t been sure he’d be willing to use them if the need arose, but Jack seemed to think he could be depended on in a pinch.

“You’d be surprised what he’s capable of,” Jack said, and the grimness in his tone told Dean everything he needed to know.

He and Jack crept toward the barn, the pungent smell of animals rising up around them. _Good,_ thought Dean. It would mask their scent. 

Inside the barn they could hear cattle lowing in distress. It was in there all right.

Dean gripped Jack by the arm, whispered low in his ear. “You circle round to the right, drive it my way. Whatever you do, do _not_ go after it yourself, cuz it’ll fuck you up – and after it’s done with you, then it’ll be my turn.”

“We went over this, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replied. “But you make me nervous.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, and if Dean wasn’t so focused on the job, the warm puff of Jack’s breath against his ear, the way their bodies were so close, touching along their sides, would be a distraction. “I’ll let you do the dirty work.”

“That’s what they pay me the big bucks for,” Dean muttered, pointing Jack to the right as he headed left, the cavernous darkness of the barn swallowing them up. He couldn’t hear Jack’s progress over the noise of the animals, so he stopped listening for it, concentrating on making a quick but thorough search of each side stall, which was where he figured the thing would most likely be hiding. It wasn’t easy to work around the animals, especially since he was trying not to disturb them further so the chupacabra couldn’t track their progress through the building that way.

They’d chased it all night, from Red Mesa to this lonely outpost south of Teec Nos Pos, a small cattle ranch eking out an existence at the edge of sage and scrub, and now that they had it cornered Dean would be damned if he was going to let it slip thought his fingers again.

He’d made it three-quarters of the way down the row of stalls when the quiet was split by a gunshot on the other side of the barn, followed by an unearthly shriek and an agonized scream. As Dean dashed down the long walkway between the stalls, all the cattle in the barn seemed to bellow at once in fear. He ran past Hurley in a blur, barging into each stall in turn, searching for Jack. The noise in the barn was deafening and he couldn’t hear a thing to pinpoint where he might be. His heart felt like it was going to hammer its way right out of his chest and the all he could think was how incredibly stupid he’d been to let this happen, to put civilians at risk, and how he was never gonna forgive himself if… if…

He could hear noise now, thrashing and gurgling and a strange, high-pitched whine, and he barreled into the stall it was coming from, a split-second for his eyes to take in Jack, on his back, covered in blood, arms flung wide and the gun just out of reach and that cocksucker of a chupacabra bent over him, red eyes glowing, four cows panicked and in danger of crushing them all.

“Mother _fucker_!” he exclaimed. The chupacabra froze, looking at him, and it seemed to waver, blending into the darkness, but Dean saw it gather into itself and brought up his shotgun the second it lunged toward him. The blast knocked it against the back wall of the stall and the cows went wild, pulling at their tethers.

“Get Jack out!” he yelled at Hurley, who’d come up behind him, his flashlight swooping crazily as he ran. Dean charged in, pushing through the cows, leaving Jack to Hurley, as he made his way toward the stunned chupacabra, machete in hand, swearing and shoving the animals out of the way with the butt of the shotgun.

He didn’t see it coming, but he was knocked to the floor and, damn, that fucker was _strong_. It went for his neck, but he stabbed at random with his free hand, felt the machete sink in somewhere around its leg, and its hold weakened just enough. In one move, he pushed it off and jumped to his feet. It had just enough time to look up at him, it’s rabid snarl abbreviated when he struck with all his strength, bringing the machete down in an arc, and the head flew through the air and hit the wall of the stall with a dull but resounding _thunk_.

"That'll teach you to fuck with a Winchester," he growled, nudging the head with his toe so that the eyes stared up at him.

He stood there for a second, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath, letting the cows jostle him. Adrenaline ricocheted through his system, making the hand holding the machete tremble.

“He’s unconscious, not dead,” said Hurley, when Dean emerged shakily from the stall. “I think it bit him, or clawed him maybe. He’s bleeding a lot.” Dean dropped to his knees beside Jack, examining the wound.

“Not too serious,” he muttered.

“ _’Not too serious?!_ ” echoed Hurley. “Are you kidding me? His side looks like raw hamburger. I’d like to see what you’d consider ‘serious’! Or no, wait, maybe I wouldn’t.”

“Anything that isn’t likely to kill you isn’t too serious,” explained Dean, echoing something his dad had said years ago. He stripped off his shirt and pressed it to Jack’s side. “And I don’t think this’ll kill him, though it’ll hurt like hell and probably leave a nasty scar.” Dean felt Jack’s scalp, and found, as he’d suspected, that a lump was forming on the back of his head. “Fucker must’ve knocked him against the wall. Could have a concussion.” He glanced around. The cattle were calming down and there was no indication that anyone had heard them. “Okay, here’s the plan. We get Jack to the car, bandage him up, come back here, burn the body and get the hell out.”

“Burn the –?”

“Yeah. Can’t exactly leave a chupacabra corpse laying around now, can we?”

“But shouldn’t we tell someone? I mean, nobody knows these things are _real_. It’s, like, a new species, dude. They should study it or something.”

Dean just shook his head. “Hurley. Come on. You know better than that. It doesn’t work that way.” Hurley looked at him a minute, his face dim in the diffuse glow of the flashlight lying beside him on the ground. Dean saw him nod, a bit reluctantly. “Here, you take his feet,” he said, lifting Jack by his shoulders. God, he weighed a ton. “And don’t drop him.”

*

They spent the next day holed up at a motel in Farmington while Jack recovered enough for the trip back to L.A. The truth was, Dean was grateful for a chance to recover too. His brief but intense battle with the chupacabra had left him sore as hell and a long drive was the last thing he needed.

The motel was old but clean, done up with Indian décor. Sam would’ve loved it. Dean knew he had a thing about kitschy Americana that he tried to keep hidden, even though his pleased little laugh whenever they stepped into some stuck-in-time motel room gave it away every time.

Hurley had a single again and Dean had bunked in with Jack. Somebody had to look after him, and it’s not like Dean really minded. Anyway, he was used to sharing a room. Jack slept until evening, when Dean helped him into the bathroom, then helped him, pale and a bit shaky, back into bed.

Dean brought him pancakes back from the diner. He probably should have asked what he wanted, but it was kind of an automatic thing. Sam always wanted pancakes when he was in recovery mode, so Dean just ordered them without thinking.

He helped Jack to a slightly more upright position and watched him drown the pancakes in butter and maple syrup. And this guy was supposed to be a doctor? He sat himself at the table, and got to work cleaning the shotgun, eying Jack surreptitiously all the while. He was shirtless, and even with the white bandage covering part of his torso, he looked damn good, with those incredible arms and that broad chest and all that hair. Jesus, that usually wasn’t Dean’s thing, but he was just itching to bury his hands in it. It had been easier to ignore Jack when he was all covered up and asleep, but now, with a whole lot of naked, hairy, muscular, tattooed Jack on display, he was finding it impossible.

Jack was channel surfing in between shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Suddenly, he stopped, watching the TV with a look of disbelief, then letting out a bark of surprised laughter.

“Dean,” he said, smiling at him. “You’ve gotta check this out. It’s the X-Files. The _chupacabra_ one!”

“No shit,” said Dean, coming over to stand beside Jack’s bed. He laughed a little as he watched the show’s version of the creature, one that looked nothing like the thing they’d pursued across half the western U.S. He seated himself near the foot of the bed and they watched the rest of the episode, critiquing its inaccuracies.

After it ended, Dean turned to Jack. He’d meant to say something else entirely, something inane about the show, but instead he said, “Man, I’m really sorry I let you get messed up in this.”

Jack frowned at him. “It was my choice, Dean. I insisted, if you recall. It’s nobody’s fault but my own that I got hurt. I’m just sorry I’ve slowed you down from meeting up with Sam. I’m sure I’ll be able to travel tomorrow.”

Dean waved his apology away impatiently. “I was in charge,” he insisted. “I should have put my foot down. I just,” he glanced up at Jack. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” He felt the color rise in his face.

“Oh, _really_?” Jack teased, lifting an eyebrow. “Literally?”

Dean laughed, embarrassed. “I… uh…” He gestured to the bandage, looking for a new topic of conversation. “I should change that.”

Now that he thought about it, changing the bandage probably wasn’t the best way to divert attention from his attraction to Jack because it involved sitting very close to him and touching his naked skin and okay, looking at the chupacabra’s handiwork wasn’t particularly arousing, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to seeing, so it didn’t really provide much of a distraction. Especially not with Jack looking at him like that, his gaze dark and steady and way, way too intense. Suddenly the motel room seemed a good bit smaller and several degrees warmer. Dean bit his lip, trying to ignore it, but he felt his body temperature rise as the minutes ticked by and Jack didn’t look away.

“You’re staring,” said Dean, applying the last strip of surgical tape to the new bandage.

Jack blinked. “Sorry. It’s hard not to.” He colored slightly. “You have the most incredible mouth.” Dean looked at him in surprise, feeling his stomach do a slow somersault. “I just want to –” Jack broke off, reaching up and dragging the pad of his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip. Dean froze, his lip tingling where Jack had touched it, his heartbeat ratcheting up to double-time in the space of a second. “I just want to kiss that mouth of yours,” Jack murmured. When Dean didn’t say anything, he reached up slowly and curled a hand behind Dean’s neck, pulling him down, and Dean let him. 

Their lips touched, dry and tentative, just for an instant. Dean took a steadying breath and pressed in again, a little more firmly and a spark shot through him, a trail of heat that rocketed from head to toe. He made a noise in his throat and shifted on the bed, finding a better angle. Jack’s hand moved to the back of his head, holding him in place as they kissed, long and slow, lips sliding gently back and forth, soft little tastes. It was sweet, Dean thought, as the warmth kindled in his body. Sweet like the maple syrup he could taste on Jack’s tongue. It felt good, felt right, unhurried, just testing the water, you could say. 

Jack’s lips parted with a sigh, and Dean swallowed down the groan that shivered up through his body as he licked inside. Jack’s hand pulled him down tighter, his other arm sliding around Dean's waist as the kiss deepened, getting hot and wet, tongues clashing, dancing, twining. Dean tried to hold himself up off Jack’s chest, tried not to put any pressure on him even though all he wanted to do was sink down on top of him and rub and thrust and grind. He was getting hard and when Jack gave a hungry little groan and sucked on his tongue, he went from ‘getting’ to ‘so fucking’ so fast it made his head spin. Jack’s hand on his back slipped under the waistband of his jeans, under his boxers, inching down until it cupped the curve of his butt, fingertips ghosting into his crack, making him want – he didn’t even know what. Something. Anything. He moaned into the damp, breathy space between them, reaching for Jack again, pulling him into another deep kiss.

Fuck, he thought, needing to come up for air. He felt lightheaded, disoriented. He forced himself to draw back, watching Jack’s face, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Jack was breathing hard, his skin flushed, his lips red and shining and his eyes – fuck, his eyes were dark and hot, pupils blown out wide. He looked a little wild, a little scared and a whole lot determined.

“Don’t stop,” Jack growled, and yanked Dean back down and this time the gloves were off, _oh yeah_ , and Jack was giving as good as he got as Dean set out to map out every detail of his mouth with his tongue, tracing lightly over teeth and gums, dipping into the soft pillows of flesh behind his lips, drawing sigils of desire onto his palate. Jack’s hand tightened on his ass, fingernails sending a shock of pain up his spine. Dean shifted over so that he was straddling Jack on all fours, still wary of putting any weight on him, and Jack’s hand slipped out of his pants and around to the front, cupping him through his jeans, then rubbing up and down over the hard line of his erection.

Dean shuddered, gasping into Jack’s mouth, losing his ability to focus on the kiss. He dropped his head to Jack’s shoulder as Jack worked him until he was panting and shivering. Jack turned his head, his lips soft and smooth against Dean’s ear.

“I want you,” he said, low and throaty. Dean made an incoherent noise of assent. “You think we can make it work –?” He gestured to his side.

“Hell, yes, we can make it work,” rasped Dean. “I can – I’ll be careful. You can’t –” The pointed tip of Jack’s tongue probed his ear. “ _Fuck_. You need to lie still. _Ahhh_. I’ll do the work.”

Jack’s lips slid down his neck, teeth nipping gently.

“You know, I’d like nothing more than to slam you down on this bed and fuck you til you can’t stand up,” Jack whispered, his breath puffing against Dean’s skin.

Dean laughed, surprised to hear how shaky it sounded. “Funny thing, Jack. That’s pretty much what I’d like to do to you.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” said Jack, “So, what are we going to do about that?” 

Dean pulled back and looked down at Jack. He looked so serious and sincere, frowning up at Dean with a worried look on his face, as if the fact that they both liked to be in control was enough to get in the way. At that moment, he thought maybe he liked Jack better than he had at any point so far, just because he could see that the guy was ready to deconstruct the question in a logical and reasonable manner and come up with some kind of compromise or maybe work out a system to ensure that each of them got their fair share of toppy moments, when the answer was really something much simpler.

He smiled easily and laughed a little before kneeling up and pulling his shirt over his head. He leaned back down to give Jack a hard, fast kiss.

“For you, Doc,” he breathed, holding Jack’s gaze. “I’d roll over - but you’re not really in any shape to be fucking.” Jack started to protest, but Dean cut him off. “I don’t want to have to sew you up again, Jack, and I don’t think you’d like that either. There’s other stuff we can do, you know.”

He stood up and dropped his jeans, shucked off his boxers, his smile broadening as Jack’s eyes darkened, sweeping down his body, then moving back up, lingering at his crotch. Dean let the fingers of one hand slide loosely up and down his cock, then move light as a whisper over the tip. He looked down at himself, watched his fingertips play over his cock. Jack made a noise and Dean looked up to see his eyes still focused hotly on what he was doing, but he’d flung back the covers and pushed down his boxers and he had his cock in his hand and _whoa_. Yeah, the doc was a big guy, all right. Big in all the places it counted. Dean bit his lip, trying to ignore the fact that his own cock just got really, really hard.

Okay, maybe he’d been a bit hasty. Maybe there was a way to make this work. He was good at improvising, and standing there staring at Jack laid out all hot and hard and um, yeah, hot and hard – it made him reconsider the no fucking thing because it suddenly seemed essential to figure out a way to acquaint Jack’s cock with his ass, even if Jack’s side was pretty much shredded and he was mostly immobile and the bed was way too small and Hurley was just on the other side of the wall. Necessity, the mother of invention he thought, turning around to rifle through his duffle for the lube.

“I thought there wasn’t going to be any fucking.” Jack said, pointing to the tube in Dean’s hand as he crawled back onto the bed and knelt beside him, pulling Jack’s boxers the rest of the way off.

“Yeah, well. I reconsidered,” murmured Dean, sliding his hands up Jack’s legs, trying not to get distracted by the sight of Jack’s cock, so close that he could just reach out and… He leered at Jack. “Hey, it’s not my fault, dude. Just look at you. There’s no way I can ignore _that_.” He nodded toward Jack’s cock. Jack raised his eyebrows and snorted with laughter.

“But I thought you loved me for my mind, Dean.” He said, smiling up at him. Dean chuckled. “So you _do_ wanna fuck now?”

“You betcha. I’ll be careful. You can just lay back and enjoy the ride.”

Jack ran a hand up Dean’s arm, over his shoulder, then down his chest, giving his nipple a sharp pinch. “I think you’re the one who’s going for a ride,” he smirked.

Jack was something of a surprise. More confidently sexual than Dean would have guessed from his normal demeanor. Dean liked it, someone who, when he pushed, would push back just as hard. He needed that, an equal. Jack fit the bill, a little too perfectly.

Damn, the guy was built. Thick muscles, but cut. He looked strong as hell, looked like he worked out. Looked like he might even be able to take Dean in a fight, if Dean fought fair, which he didn’t. Looking at Jack, laying there on the bed like a gift from the God Dean didn’t believe in, naked and hard, thick, juicy cock lying up against his belly, Dean had the urge to say a little prayer of thanks anyway.

He moved his hands up, hair tickling his palms, burying his fingers in the thick, springy curls at Jack’s crotch, letting his thumbs rub lightly back and forth over his balls, watching his leg muscles tense as a tremor ran through them. Jack was watching him, following his every move. He shifted his hips restlessly, trying to bring his cock in contact with Dean’s hand. The gasp he wrung out of Jack as he ran his fingertips over the underside of it, up, back and up, made him want to do it again, made him want to make Jack moan and beg and scream.

“Hot,” Dean whispered. “So fucking hot.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Jack managed, breathing fast.

“So let’s do this thing,” said Dean, ripping open the condom and rolling it down over Jack’s cock, then slicking him up. Now that he’d decided to let Jack fuck him it was all he could think about and he was just fucking desperate to get that nice, fat cock deep inside him.

“It’s been a while,” he said, glancing up at Jack while he lubed his fingers, “since I did it like this. I might - _ungh_ \- need to go slow.” He bore down onto his finger, exhaling, trying to make his muscles open, but he was sorely out of practice. He closed his eyes, trying to relax enough to get another finger inside.

“Come here,” said Jack. Dean opened his eyes to see Jack watching him. He pulled his finger out and crawled forward a bit, keeping his legs wide to avoid bumping against Jack. “No, come _here_.” Jack grabbed his ass and pulled him forward until he straddled his chest. “ _Now_ do it,” he said, giving Dean a dark, heated smile, taking his cock in hand and licking over the head.

 _“Oh_ ”, Dean gasped, as Jack’s lips tightened around him, sucking softly. _“Fuck._ ” He watched his cock disappear into Jack’s mouth, finding himself incapable of doing anything other than making embarrassingly breathless noises and losing himself in hot, wet pressure, Jack’s tongue slithering over his dick in a knowing way, as if he had already figured out all the ways to make him come undone. Dean's legs were trembling and he could feel sweat breaking out on his skin as he thrust, once, experimentally, groaning as Jack took him in.

He started when Jack’s hand closed around his wrist, guiding his hand back and Dean suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be working himself open and Jesus, he didn't know if he could do that without coming. But Jack didn’t relent, pushing his hand against his ass, so he pressed a finger in, easier now. He braced his other hand on the wall, because he was going to just keel over if he didn’t support himself somehow and slid his finger in and out a few times, thrusting into Jack’s mouth at the same time. He let his head fall back, color dancing behind his eyelids.

He felt the added pressure of something slick and cool stretching him open wider before he really understood what it was and when he realized it was Jack’s lubed finger beside his, he moaned feeling his cock jerk against the roof of Jack’s mouth. A couple more combined thrusts and he let his hand fall away and Jack took over, two fingers, faster, rougher, more efficient. Dean whimpered as the fingers twisted inside him, as a third one was added. He was too far gone to stop, to remember this was just a prelude. Pleasure burned through him, taking thought with it. His hips rocked unconsciously, his cock sliding into Jack’s mouth, then back to take his fingers in as deep as he could. Jack seemed to be avoiding his prostate and he wanted him there, wanted it so bad, twisting to try to get the right angle, his eyes squeezed shut, the noises he was making turning desperate.

“ _Ahhh_ ,” he gasped as Jack’s fingers were suddenly gone. His hands gripped Dean’s hips firmly, pushing him back, his cock emerging reluctantly from the circle of Jack’s lips. “God, no.” 

He blinked open, looking down at Jack through a fog of lust, things coming into just enough focus to make him feel a bit chagrined at how he’d totally lost his head. He tried to get a grip, regain a little control, but there wasn’t time, with Jack shoving him forcefully back. He scrambled to comply, remembering Jack’s injury at the last minute and shifting his legs out wide to avoid it.

“Are you -” his voice was so shot he could barely speak. “Are you okay?”

Jack laughed, deep and wicked. “Yeah, Dean. I’m good.”

“Thank fuck,” Dean breathed, bringing himself into position. “Cuz if you’re not fucking me in about five seconds I think I’m gonna die.”

Jack had one hand tight on Dean’s hip, one on his own cock, holding it for him. “God, yeah,” breathed Jack as Dean lowered himself, just until the tip was pressing against him, pausing to feel the waves of want flowing through his body. “C'mon take it,” Jack said, his eyes riveted to where their bodies touched. “I wanna see you take it.”

 _Fuck_. Dean let gravity work for him, sinking down. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t painless, even stretched and eager as he was. It took forever, an endless burn opening him, delving into him right at his core until he was full, so full that he couldn’t move, his ass clenched tight, his muscles trembling, his vision spotty, his body slicked with sweat. He felt Jack’s hands on his hips, stroking over his hipbones, heard him murmuring something, low and soothing. Dean inhaled and let himself sink the rest of the way, unable to hold in a single, sharp exclamation as he came to rest with Jack as deep inside as he could be.

It was too much. He hadn’t done this in too long a time to take a guy built like Jack, but at the same time it was mind-blowingly good, though he felt like a damn bottom slut for thinking so. He needed to move, but he needed a minute to adjust, just another minute, then he felt Jack thrust shallowly and, _oh_. The pained gasp that followed it got his attention though. Jack was breathing hard, teeth clenched. He blinked a few times, looking up at Dean.

“I can’t,” he said. “Can’t move at all. _Fuuuck_. This could very well kill me.”

“It’s okay,” said Dean. “I can. I was just – it’s okay. Let me –” He rose up, slow, slow, all the way, and he was empty and open and aching to be filled again, and then he sank down until his ass met Jack’s hips, unable to contain the little whine that arose out of him. He moved again, a bit faster, smoother, finding a rhythm, gradually upping the tempo as his body loosened enough to allow it.

He didn’t want to brace himself on Jack’s shoulders, but it was hard to balance up straight, so he leaned forward, hands on the bed.

“It’s okay,” Jack said roughly. “God, Dean, it’s so good.” His hand reached to Dean’s face, smoothing over his cheek, his jaw, his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, wet and sloppy, both of them too distracted to manage much more than fast and dirty tongue-fucking between gasping breaths.

Dean sat up a bit and met Jack’s eyes. They were glazed and feverish, and the way they looked at him, _God_. Jack ran his hands over Dean’s chest, tweaking his nipples again and again which made Dean fuck down onto his cock harder, faster. He closed his eyes, hands fisted in the sheets. Jack’s hand slid lower, inch by inch over sweat-slick skin, tortuously slow in contrast Dean’s almost frantic thrusting.

“Jack – fuck – need – need –” He bit his lip, stoppering up the words. God, he wasn’t going to beg, he wasn’t.

He could feel his balls drawn up and tight, his cock releasing tiny spurts of liquid that dripped down his shaft, pressure and friction and pleasure and a deep, hot ache inside that twisted in his gut. He shifted back a few inches and _ohhh_. Holy fucking shit, right there, right there. Jack said something and Dean realized he’d said it aloud, but it didn’t matter as he slammed himself down on Jack’s cock, his whole body vibrating with contained energy, Jack’s injury forgotten, everything narrowed down to the need to come.

Jack’s hand curled around his balls, pulling, squeezing, his other hand twisting a swollen nipple, and then dropping back to his hip, pulling him down harder. Dean's mouth fell open and his movement stuttered, rhythm and coordination vanquished by the waves of sensation cresting inside him. Jack’s fingers dug into hip, forcing him to keep moving, keep fucking as he rode through his orgasm, gushing thick and white onto Jack’s stomach. He sobbed, too far gone to care, the contractions of his muscles around the cock inside him sending shocks of pleasure along every nerve.

He heard Jack groan, felt the throb as he came, his head back but otherwise motionless except for a few small thrusts that Dean figured must not be hurting him much at this point. He tried to tighten around Jack, but his muscle control wasn’t so good at the moment and anyway, he didn’t think it mattered, Jack seemed to be doing okay as it was from the sound of it. The guy made the _best_ sounds, and he looked amazing too, completely abandoned to sensation, lost and blissed-out and just fucking sexy.

Neither of them moved for a long moment as they let their heartbeats slow and their breathing even out. Dean’s body felt heavy, his limbs tingling and weak and when he went to lift himself off of Jack he found he was trembling.

Dean couldn’t really lay down beside Jack because there wasn’t room on the bed and Jack couldn’t shift over to make a space for him, so he sat back on Jack’s thighs for a minute, just until he could get some blood flow back up to his head.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbled, looking up at him through half-closed eyes. “I’d make room, but…”

“Don’t apologize. I just need a minute.” Dean shook his head. “Jesus, doc. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Yeah?” Jack asked, as if he didn’t already know. It’s not like Dean had been particularly subtle about how much he was enjoying himself. Jack smiled, sweet and sincere, and damned if Dean knew how a guy who was such a force to be reckoned with in the sack – and out of it, to tell the truth – could look so innocent. Strangely, the smile reminded him of Sam, and how ninety per cent of the people who knew him would never believe what a badass he was capable of being. And then he pushed that thought aside, because thinking of Sam and Jack in the same way just seemed, well… weird.

“Yeah,” confirmed Dean, getting somewhat unsteadily to his feet and stretching out the kinks in his back. He smirked. “But I did all the work, so maybe I should be complimenting myself.”

“I was there, you know,” Jack called, as Dean headed into the bathroom. “Don't try to pretend I had nothing to do with it.”

Dean returned a minute later with a wet washcloth and handed it to Jack, standing at the side of the bed while Jack cleaned up, but instead of handing it back to Dean he dropped the washcloth on the floor by the bed.

“C’mere,” he said, tugging on Dean’s hand.

“Aww, Doc, don’t tell me you go for the mushy stuff.” But Dean let himself be pulled. “Next thing I know, you’re gonna want to cuddle or something.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” said Jack, and Dean did, and really, it wasn’t so bad.

***

In the morning, Jack made it over to the diner for breakfast, walking slowly and carefully at Dean’s side. He slid into the booth beside Dean with a muffled groan, his face a shade paler than usual, but by the time his pancakes arrived he was back to normal, though sitting stiffly and making a concerted effort not to laugh at Hurley’s and Dean’s jokes.

“Hurts too much when I laugh,” he explained.

Hurley kept giving Dean funny looks and kicking him under the table, and his eye had an odd twitch that Dean only realized later was supposed to be a wink, though at the time Dean started to worry that something was really wrong with the guy. After breakfast Jack excused himself to go back to the motel and lie down and Dean was left to finish his coffee with Hurley.

“So,” said Hurley, as soon as Jack was out the door. “You and Jack.”

Dean frowned at him. “What?”

“ _You. And. Jack._ Don’t try and play dumb with me, Dean.” He gave him a significant look. “I had the room next door.”

Dean blushed, and he was _so_ not a blusher. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he'd blushed. But he could feel it, his whole face suddenly burning hot and Hurley’s triumphant crowing only made it burn hotter.

“Dude!” cried Hurley, dissolving into laughter. “Your face! You should see yourself!”

Dean scowled at him, unamused. “Fuck you,” he muttered.

Hurley grinned at him. “Oh, man. I’m so tempted to say that it seems like maybe it’s the other –”

“Don’t you dare.” Dean gave him the death glare.

Hurley snickered, looking smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dean sipped his coffee, looking out the window. _Not_ looking at Hurley.

“It just happened,” he said. “I didn’t mean to –”

“Unh-unh-unh,” said Hurley, covering his ears. “I don’t wanna know. I just wanted to get a rise out of you, that’s all. You can save the juicy details for your diary.”

“Okay,” said Dean, draining the last dregs of coffee from his cup. “That works for me.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go, H. Time to hit the road.”

“I hope Jack’s gonna be okay for the drive,” Dean said as they walked back to the motel.

“I’m more worried about you than I am about him.”

Dean looked at him. “What?” exclaimed Hurley. “I am! Jack gets to lie down in back. I saw you wince when you sat down in the diner, dude, and you’ve got a long day in the car ahead of you. Are you sure –?”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean snapped. “ _Jesus._ ”

***

It was late when they got back to L.A. They dropped Hurley off at his place and Jack thought the look of relief on his face was second only to the one he’d seen on the day the rescue boat appeared on the horizon.

He gave Jack a careful hug, promising to check in the next day, and Dean a much bigger one, practically lifting him off his feet.

“Don’t be a stranger, dude. Come see me, hang out for a while - as long as you want. And bring your crazy brother with you next time,” Hurley said. “Just, whatever you do, don’t bring a hunt.”

Dean was quiet as they drove to Jack’s house. Jack wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but his own thoughts were in turmoil. He’d known going in that this thing with Dean was a one-time deal, but it still felt like it was over too soon, like the ending was coming too abruptly. He wasn’t ready for it, not yet.

“Dean,” he said as they turned onto his street. “I know you’re anxious to meet up with Sam, but… if you want, you can stay at my place tonight.”

Dean hesitated for a moment. “I’d have to leave in the morning.”

“That’s fine. I know. And it’s okay,” Jack assured him. After a moment he added. "I want you to."

“Then, yeah. I’ll stay.”

A King-size bed really makes all the difference in the world, thought Jack, as he lay, sprawled on his back on his bed, watching Dean impale himself again and again on his dick. _Beautiful_ , he thought, taking in Dean’s kiss-swollen lips, the sweat trickling down his chest, his cock rising up, flushed pink and wet at the tip. _God, so beautiful_. He didn’t say it out loud though. He didn’t think Dean was the kind of guy who’d know what to do with being called beautiful.

“Dean,” he said, “Look at me.” Dean opened his eyes, unfocused pupils blown out wide. Jack took Dean’s cock in hand, stroked him once, up and back. “I wanna see you come. Want you to come for me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean whispered. “Not til you –”

“Want you to come on me while I’m hard,” said Jack. “You liked that, right?”

Dean moaned, moving a little faster. “No,” he panted. “Didn’t like it.”

“No?”

“Loved it. God, Jack. You’re - _ahhh_ \- you’re fucking with my – self-image as a – as a - _ohhfuck_ \- Jack - _Jesus_ -”

Jack thought that Dean’s self-image as a toppy kind of guy probably was taking a bit of a beating, considering the enthusiastic way he was bouncing up and down on Jack’s cock. But that was probably okay. Jack’s own self-image as the kind of guy who was done with beautiful, tough-talking bad boys, ready to hang up his guns and his hat and lead a normal life, sticking to what was safe and predictable and letting all the bad things out there in the world take care of themselves – letting other people, younger and less weary than himself fight those battles – had taken a major hit over the past few days as well.

Dean’s cock hardened and swelled in his hand and he started making that noise again, the one he made right before he came. Jack’s hand tightened on his hip, holding him together as he shattered.

*

Afterward they cuddled. 

Dean didn’t say anything about it this time and Jack didn’t tease, just wrapped an arm around him when Dean’s head found its way onto his shoulder. They lay quietly until the sweat had dried on their skin, and then Jack took a deep breath and said what he'd been thinking about all week.

“I want to learn to hunt.”

“You want – what?” Dean sat up, looking at him in consternation.

“I want to learn to hunt,” repeated Jack. "I want to be a hunter."

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. “It’s not – not something you just decide one day - Jack, you’ve got everything here.” He gestured around him. “This house. A career. Money. Friends. You don’t want to walk away from that, man. Hunting… it’s a hard life. And no offense, but you're old to be starting out. It's not just a job. Its... like they say, it’s not a career, it’s a calling.”

“I know,” Jack said. He hoped he could make Dean see. “And I’m telling you, I’m being called. I know it's crazy, at my age especially, but I have to do this, Dean. I just need you to tell me how.”

Dean shook his head. “You don’t know… We were just out for a _week_. My life, Sam’s life, it’s months of it, years – it never ends. We don’t have a home, we don’t have friends or family, we don’t have anything normal. We’re criminals in the eyes of the law. Why would you want that?”

“There’s evil out there,” Jack said simply. “I want to fight it. I want to save people.”

“You _do_ save people,” insisted Dean. “You’re a fucking spinal surgeon.”

“Yeah, and there’s lots of other people who can do my job. I’m good, but I’m not irreplaceable. Who else does what you do, what Sam does? How many people are willing to take the risks you do, to devote their lives to this – this _calling_ – and not even get any acknowledgment for it? Not very many. Well, I’m willing, Dean. I want to do it. I need to.”

Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to see you throw it all away,” he said, staring at the rumpled sheet, his fingers picking at the corner of it. “I want to drive away in the morning and be able to think of you here, happy in your fancy house, playing golf with Hurley on the weekend, doing your doctor thing during the week, safe from things that go bump in the night. I don’t want you out there, like us, living rough and never knowing if the next hunt’ll be your last.”

Jack covered Dean’s hand with his own, giving it a squeeze. “No one’s safe, Dean. You know that. And I’m _not_ happy. I’ve been happier in the past week than I’ve been in a very long time, and yeah, a part of that was you, but a part of it was doing something really fucking important, and just –” he searched for the words, “being _free_. I want that. I think I’d be good at it. Is that so hard to understand?”

He watched Dean as his internal struggle played itself out on his face.

“I’ll do it either way,” Jack said softly. “But it’d be easier if you help me.”

The minutes stretched, and Jack waited. Then Dean sighed, and shook his head.

“Okay, Doc,” he said finally, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s your funeral."

"Thanks," said Jack, ignoring Dean's grimace as he leaned forward to kiss him.

"The first thing you gotta do," Dean said, "is find somebody who can teach you, and it just so happens that I know a guy who might fit the bill. Prickly mofo, but nobody knows more than he does about the supernatural. He was a... well, _sort_ of a friend of my dad’s. Anyway, he owns this salvage yard…”


End file.
